Ruthless Examinant
by Sparkly Palm Tree
Summary: Dick makes some analogies. Bruce makes amends — or tries to. Roy and Ollie don't even try. AKA Boys wear shirts. {Lowkeyish Dick/Roy}


**Ruthless Examinant**

 **I picture Dick being 18 in this, which puts Roy, at the very** _least_ **, around 20**

 ** _ANd DICK DOESNT LIKE THINKING ABOUT WHEN BRUCE FIRED HIM BC HE SAID THINGS THAT HE REGRETS TOO BUT IS BLOCKING THEM OUT SO HE THINKS HE IS NOT AT FAULT_** **#selectivememory**

 **^that is why you'll only see him refer to it as when.**

 **BasicallyDick and Roy are my babies and THE KIDS ARE NOT ALRIGHT I REPEAT THEY ARE NOT ALRIGHT**

 **Canonically D is bi (see literally all of the new 52) but I wrote him as pan**

* * *

"That is not your shirt."

Dick's mouth drops open, and he looks at Bruce with exaggerated shock. "It _isn't_?" He pauses, before grabbing the fabric and scrutinizing it like he's never seen it before. "News to me."

Bruce tsks, dark eyes narrowed. "You don't even _like_ Led Zeppelin."

"People change, Bruce," Dick says vaguely, shrugging while he hopes that the dig will make Bruce uncomfortable enough to drop the subject. He isn't sure how he'd explain if the man didn't.

 _Yeah, you know me and my best friend? We've been—_

Wait.

He nearly laughs. _I don't_ _have_ _to explain it._

Even if Dick wasn't a newly official adult, Bruce's here to apologize, not to tell Dick what shirts he could wear, or who he could date.

Well, presumably.

Bruce, of course, has yet to get to the part about mending their relationship, or how he was sorry, or that he wanted Dick to visit sometimes, that he shouldn't have stolen Robin — Dick's identity, Dick's mother's name for him — and given it to the street kid, or that he'd tried to block Dick's induction to the JL, or.

Or.

There are a lot of things Bruce could talk about here, but what he comments on is the shirt.

Which, to be fair, is _not_ his.

But he won't let Bruce know that. Can't.

Not after he barged in his window for him this late in the night (that, as of three hours ago, was morning) like he never said that he hated Dick, like he never replaced him.

"It's far too big for you," Bruce notes, and he can practically hear the ' _are you eating_ _enough_?' at the end, but fuck it, Bruce lost the ' _just checking up on you_ ' privileges two years ago when—

When.

And no, he isn't eating enough, and maybe that's kind of his last 'fuck you' to Bruce. Of course, it's not _just_ about rejecting his mentor and making him feel the way Dick did that awful time when—

When.

It's also for financial reasons. Bruce cut him off, and even though he graduated early from high school, he spent those two years messing-around/finding-his-own-identity with the Titans.

And college? It's expensive. Like, _really_ expensive, even with the scholarships.

He burns so many calories on patrol and working out that his wallet can't keep up. So he has to choose, between school that will propel him further in _life_ or food that will sustain him for 24 hours at the most.

(And spending all those years around stupid rich people has ruined him for eating perfectly good ramen anyways.)

Besides, when he gets home, all he wants to do is sleep. Maybe take a shower. Eating isn't high up on the list.

Alfred, he knows, would be appalled at him having cereal every meal of the day.

Or.

The days that he remembers to eat.

His diet consists of cereal, adrenaline, and nicotine.

"Bruce," he says instead, "I'm _short_ ; everything's too big on me."

"Tee-shirts in public?" Bruce asks, and that one's kind of fair, because the last Bruce had seen of him, he'd worn sweaters. Like, everywhere. Bruce isn't used to penniless, rebellious, pansexual, goes-to-concerts-and-nightclubs-and-smokes Dick Grayson. He's only ever known the good kid, who followed every order and direction, whose teachers gushed over him, whose only wish was to fit in. Who had a future in the upper crust, who had a fantastic reputation, who didn't smoke cigarettes or sneak out at night.

He forgets Bruce is a rich guy sometimes, unused to the streets, unused to normal people or their lifestyles.

Dick has never understood Bruce in a lot of ways (i.e. _all of them_ ), but _why_ he thinks living in the best house in the best part of the city makes sense when he's trying to save the worst part will always elude him, he's sure.

"Been snooping in the closet?" he asks, dumping cereal into a bowl and shoving in a spoon. He offers some to Bruce, who shakes his head. "If you were looking for me, I'm not in there anymore."

It's probably a good thing Bruce didn't accept any cereal, because he manages to choke on just the oxygen.

"What?" Bruce manages finally.

Dick chews first, he's not really hungry, but he's not going to let Bruce know that. Won't give him the satisfaction. He climbs on top of the refrigerator.

Heights calm him.

Everyone kind of expects Dick go to be afraid of them, afraid of falling, but apparently they'd never taken physics. Falling is fine, he does that all the time; everyone does.

It's the landing. The landing hurts and kills, and he never wants to land. Never wants to stop. "Have you been snooping in my closet?" he repeats the question, knowing that's not in the least what Bruce meant.

"I—" Bruce starts.

"O-M- _G_ ," Dick spells out, setting his bowl aside and grinning. "You have!"

"No! I haven't been!" he exclaims, and it feels good to know that he can still rile the man up. "I mean, you're..." His eyes widen emphatically, and it's a little adorable seeing the unshakable Dark Knight of Gotham so flustered.

"Then how do you know what I wear now?" A swift subject change.

"I lived with you for eight years!"

 _And yet you didn't — don't — realize what Robin means to me,_ he wants to snarl.

"And you didn't know I like Led Zeppelin?" he offers instead, allowing the man's mind to lead _itself_ to the canyon of 'maybe I didn't know him that well', rather than Dick. People listen to themselves more than they listen to others.

But Led Zeppelin.

He's not exactly a fan. Kind of the exact opposite. In fact, until meeting the Titans, he'd really only listened to the bare minimum of sugar-sweet modern pop music necessary to make idle conversations at school and charity balls.

But Roy likes them. Probably because they have a song called _Hats off to (Roy) Harper._

Which is so perfect, Dick can't even.

Because Roy Harper. Hats. Hats coming off. Hats coming off _and_ Roy Harper.

 _In a song._

And what kind of friend would he be if he didn't love that song?

Bruce is still recovering from the closet statement, Dick is sure, but he just wants to _sleep_.

"So," he claps his hands together, leaping off the fridge, hiding a wince when he remembers his sore leg. "Any other feelings about my clothing or choice in bands that I can assuage at the lovely hour of...3 o' clock?"

"...No." Bruce removes the cowl — it was getting kind of weird, talking to his ex-legal guardian dressed as Bat when he only wore Roy's shirt and pajama pants. "Dick," he whispers, narrowed eyes practically gouging holes in him.

Shadows blanket half of the man's face with darkness, splitting it into half, pale in the moonlight and pitch black in the lacktherof.

A hand reaches out to him, but he can't stop staring at Bruce's face, only it doesn't _look like Bruce's face anymore._

Dick presses his back against the counter, because it shouldn't, _this_ is not _that_ , but Bruce reminds him a lot of Deathstroke right now and —

 _How did he never notice the similarities before? They'd always been wildly different entities to him. Slade was the antithesis of Batman, and that had been what kept him sane during that time, thinking of Batman. But they're so similar that they're nearly the same person in personalitystatureheightattitudewidthdeterminationinterest—_

He wants to run away — he's good at that — at the same time that he wants to cry — he has plenty of experience there too— but before he can do either, there are hands on his shoulders, and he _also_ wants to push them away.

Only, he doesn't.

It's half and half.

He hates being half and half, he hates being undecided, he hates being conflicted, because nothing good ever comes from that. And thinking about making decisions means waiting me and waiting means stopping, and he can't do _that_.

It distracts.

It ruins.

It kills.

Harvey Dent is half and half.

Deathstroke is half and half.

Dick Grayson is half and half now and he hates it.

He remembers being wholly in the moonlight, believing in Batman and his goodness to the point it was nearly a religion.

Even more vividly, he remembers being in the shadows with Deathstroke and being exhilarated and seeing that sometimes _that_ way, Bruce's way, isn't enough.

Now he's half in and half out of either one, a jack of all trades but master of none, the way he'd never wanted to be.

The hands make their way to Dick's back, and push him into Bruce's chest. His face is smashed against the man's shoulder, in a way that is the exact opposite of comfortable, but he'd be lying if he said it wasn't comfort _ing_.

He can count on one hand the times that Bruce has hugged him like this before.

That night at the circus, snapping wires and the gaps of the crowd and the sound of _impact_ resounding in his mind and Bruce hugging him and —

No. 2 — the funeral. There's nothing he can really remember from that day besides the sun peeking out as they were given a ceremony — not a proper Rom one, he'd thought to himself — and the realization that this was the last time he'd ever be so close to him and Bruce hugging him.

 _Two-Face._

The anniversary of their deaths where he sat on his father's grave and cried.

After he'd given his Valedictorian speech at Bristol Senior High. When Bruce first surged up to embrace him, he'd figured it'd been fro the tabloids; 'hey, look at this kid, isn't this great for my reputation, my charity case went so far ahead and came out on top'. Bruce hadn't let go for a moment too long after the cameras stopped flashing. " _I'm proud of you,_ " he thought he'd heard, but he must have been imagining it.

And done. Scene. Cut. Fin. Over.

Make that six, he thinks as he grabs a fistful of Bruce's cape.

He still only makes it up to Bruce's collar, even through the Kevlar Dick can feel the man's clavicle. Bruce has a way of making everyone around him feel small, and Dick's only 5'9 to the man's 6'3. He could shake this off, laugh and push his ex-guardian away, make a joke about heights.

But when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out at all, not besides a dry sob that makes Bruce's fingers dig into his back.

And there goes the warm, fuzzy feelings.

He think a hug will fix _this_?

Dick isn't sure if he's referring to himself or their screwed up relationship. He doesn't even know for sure if Bruce is aware of Deathstroke mentoring him, but he'd bet everything in what is no longer _his_ trust fund that he has a clue. But that doesn't stop one part of his mind from _hoping_ that Bruce doesn't know what he's done.

Running isn't really an option anymore, so he cries.

Bruce cards through Dick's hair, and it's such a paternal gesture that he wants to scream.

 _You aren't my father_.

Maybe he's Jason's, and if the rumors that Dick has heard about the League of Shadows are true, then someone else too, but he's not Dick's.

He's messed up, yeah, but he doesn't have the _right_ to cry, not when so many other people have—

 _Have_.

Even getting blackmailed into being a mercenary's protege is a first world problem, and isn't that horrible?

Bruce lowers them to the ground, slowly, before wrapping his arms even tighter around him. "Dick," Bruce says again, "come home." The words sound strained and forced and come through gritted teeth but the man's face is genuine and Dick knows that he's just got a problem addressing issues of affection head on. And also, verbal admission?

Since. When.

 _Get up, Grayson_, he thinks, _you're supposed to hate him,_ and manages a weak shove at Bruce that does nothing at all and gives a mumbled, "Don't tell me what to do," that makes a rumble go through the man's chest and —

 _The Batman has been kidnapped_ , he realizes, _alert, alert._

He doesn't have a problem with people expressing heartfelt sentiments. No, not at all, it's definitely not a tendency indoctrinated in him at a young age, why do you ask?

It's a Bruce problem, he is sure.

* * *

"That isn't your shirt."

"Nah," Roy says, shifting because the shirt is hella _tight_ and because he does not appreciate Ollie's presence, to put it lightly.

The blond squints and — "Didn't realize you were a fan of _Sin by Silence."_

 _"_ What can I say," Roy drawls, not breaking eye contact, "preserve the planet and all that."

Ollie's eyes sparkle knowingly, and Roy wants to punch that look off of his stupid face —

He doesn't.

"So, ah, you and Bats Jr?" Ollie asks instead, doing that obnoxious smirk on that obnoxious face, and the urge to hit him increases tenfold.

Because Dick Grayson isn't just 'Bats Jr' (thank god) because _he_ was able to escape the massive shadow of his mentor and become his own person, something that Roy hasn't been able to do, because _apparently_ keeping the arrows and the red color scheme from his sidekicking days is enough to establish a permanent connection between Green Arrow and whatever alias Roy is going by that week.

He doesn't correct him though.

In fact, he doesn't say anything, just stares.

The smirk gives way to something else. "He'll..." Ollie looks around for inspiration, " he, er, seems like a good kid—"

Roy snorts a little at that.

"You _aren't_ dating?" Ollie raises an eyebrow, and now he's just being a dick, and not the Grayson kind.

"...We are," he answers finally.

"Jason's a little young, I'll—"

No. No. _No_.

" _Jason_?" Roy is horrified. "God, _no_! He's like...eleven!"

(And, like, a reckless brat, if what he's heard from Dick is true. They both rant about their ex-guardians, ex-mentors a lot for people who claim not to care about them at all. At least Dick has the defense of not wanting Bruce to put another kid in danger via Gotham villains. Well, any villains are terrible, but those indigenous to Gotham sometimes take Superman and Batman to contain, so some half-trained, non-meta kid doesn't stand a _chance_.)

" _Sixteen_ , actually." Ollie supplies, (same thing, Oliver, _whatever_ ) and he didn't even remember Roy's birthday but he knows this kid's? Roy's not sure if he really resents the kid the way Dick does, or if he wants to meet him.

"I'm dating Dick!" And —

Oh. They'd been keeping it kind of under wraps, so telling the second most notorious bigmouth in the entire Justice League (after Flash, of course) probably wasn't smart.

It's just —

Ollie is so frustrating sometimes, misunderstanding _everything_.

Instead, Ollie looks pleased, impressed even, and Roy has been played. He gives him a thumbs up. "You and Grayson," he says, and clicks his teeth, voice either sounding like he was just testing it out or like he was planning their wedding. "Not bad, son, not bad at all."

 _Don't call me son,_ he doesn't snarl, not like he wants to, and just throws an apple at the stupid archer, mentally willing him to leave.

Ollie catches it, because of course, and Roy sighs, carefully binding up his anger before.

 _Before_.

"Get out of my life, Queen," he says, the back of his head hitting the wall.

A smile. Ollie opens the door, walks out, and comes back in. "I'll be seeing you?" he asks, so hopefully that it almost makes Roy want to lie and say —

Ha, nope.

"No," he says, and this time his fruit projectile makes its target, and hits Olle right in the forehead. Then, as an afterthought, "Tell Dinah I said hi."

 _What even, Oliver,_ he thinks, getting up and walking to the door, _when someone throws fruit at you, it means you should leave._

"You could come home, tell her yourself," Ollie offers, just as the door slams in his face.

It's almost as if — and this is crazy, just a theory — Roy cut Oliver off on purpose to avoid an overly-emotional confrontations that will drudge up old wounds, ancient mistakes.

He swoops to pick up the apple, now bruised, and listens to the slow patter of footsteps outside.


End file.
